


drowning butterflies

by squipport



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst and Feels, Holography, Hurt No Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Red vs Blue: Recreation, Unresolved Romantic Tension, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:54:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23395090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squipport/pseuds/squipport
Summary: And so it continues on a loop, on and on, repeating through his head. He’s in love with his best friend, he can’t tell Simmons he’s in love with him since that would ruin everything, he needs an outlet, to vent to his best friend, Simmons is his best friend, he’s in love with his best friend...And then, something new.What if hecouldtalk to Simmons.Withouttelling him.
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	drowning butterflies

There’s a crack in the ceiling. It started as a small split, but it has increasingly fractured, expanded, into what is definitely a crack. You no longer have to squint your eyes and tilt your head, really look for it, to see it. It’s not big enough to be a concern yet, but it is bigger than it was.

Grif knows this because he has spent a long time, hours upon hours, staring at this particular crack in the ceiling, as it is just above where he lays his head to sleep every night.

Well, most nights.

Some nights, like tonight, he can’t sleep – his head is buzzing with possibilities, what ifs, trying to formulate the right words in the right order so he can just –

So he stares at the crack because if he doesn’t he’ll turn to his side and stare at the back of Simmons’ head, and watching his best friend sleep while he tries to think of how to finally tell him how he feels is just downright creepy, crossing too many lines.

Grif sighs and presses his palms against his eyelids, pressure to force the tears of frustration from falling. But it isn’t his eyes that fail him, but his throat, traitorously letting a sob escape before he can choke it back, stifle it, _anything_.

Grif freezes and now he does turn to look at Simmons who is beginning to stir on the other side of the room.

“Grif?” he mumbles, body half turning towards the noise.

With no response, Simmons quickly settles again. Hopefully he won’t recall this at all in the morning.

Quiet as he can Grif slips out of bed and into the hallway. That was too close and he can’t risk waking Simmons during one of his ruminations because he knows that he’ll say _something_ he won’t be able to take back.

He wanders on autopilot, feet carrying him forward without his input, mind completely focused on Simmons. Grif ends up in the kitchen and it happens so frequently that he can’t even be annoyed, just goes through the motions of getting a snack and something to drink.

Standing in the dark, resting his weight against the counter and elbow deep in a bag of chips, he feels pressure build in his throat, pressure behind his eyes and an oncoming headache from pent up misery. Grif stifles another sob and desperately drinks his water, hand shaking as he drains the glass. He quickly refills it and drinks again, and again, eventually giving up on the glass altogether and drinking straight from the tap. He thinks he read somewhere (or maybe Simmons told him _stop thinking about him_ ) that you can’t cry while drinking, so he keeps going until his stomach hurts and he feels nauseous. At least it isn’t from butterflies anymore.

He turns off the tap and brushes his hair out of his face with a sigh. He props his elbows against the counter and rests there for a moment, head hung low and taking careful, measured breaths.

He wants...

He wants to talk to Simmons. He doesn’t want to _tell_ Simmons, but if he could just talk to him as best friends, vent about his stupid crush and let off some steam before he explodes that would be enough.

He could ask him for advice, maybe, if he were feeling particularly brave.

How to tell your best friend that you’re in love with him without actually revealing that you’re in love with him...

And so it continues on a loop, on and on, repeating through his head. He’s in love with his best friend, he can’t tell Simmons he’s in love with him since that would ruin everything, he needs an outlet, to vent to his best friend, Simmons is his best friend, he’s in love with his best friend...

And then, something new.

What if he _could_ talk to Simmons. _Without_ telling him.

Grif nearly slips in his haste to leave the kitchen, picking up speed until he’s practically running as he heads for the elevator that will take him to the basement. He has to force the elevator doors open and they creak and protest the whole while, but he doesn’t _care_ , not even when the entire thing shudders before beginning its slow descent.

He can see into the hologram chamber even as the elevator continues downwards, brief flashes of light leaving an impression; a vast, empty basement, too late at night for even Lopez to keep tinkering away which Grif is thankful for.

The elevator comes to a slow stop and he waits impatiently for the thing to settle before prying the doors open again. He doesn’t think about how high the landing is, or that the ramp doesn’t have railings as he descends, just focuses on moving forward.

Still, Grif breathes a sigh of a relief when the concrete levels out, decline giving in to level footing.

The basement is completely empty, so Grif looks along the walls for a panel or terminal, some way to power the room and set his plan into motion. He really should have payed attention to at least one of the explanations on how to operate the chamber, but ah well. You live, you learn. And if there’s one thing he’s learned since joining Red Team it’s to ignore Sarge and Simmons as often as possible.

Simmons, right.

As his thoughts return to Simmons he hears a wooshing computerized noise from behind and turns to find the room constructing a Simmons-shaped hologram.

“Huh,” he says, circling the construct. Thought activated. Impressive, Lopez.

It’s wearing armour, helmet and all, but the build and height for Simmons is spot on. Grif hopes that the room is just predisposed to that, Simmons characteristics already programmed in just like the holo-Grif’s, rather than it be accurate to his memory.

“Grif?” Holo-Simmons says, stopping Grif in his tracks. “What are you doing? There’s still four hours until Sarge expects us up and ready for another day of crushing the Blues.”

“Uh,” he replies eloquently, moving to stand in front of the hologram. “You... _do_ know you’re not _actually_ Simmons, right?”

Holo-Simmons tilts its head in the same way Simmons would when rolling his eyes. “Yes, but you wanted to talk to me. So that’s what I’m doing; talking.” The ‘duh’ goes unsaid.

There’s a beat where neither says anything, Grif still wrapping his head around all of this and trying to get his thoughts in order.

“Oh God, am I not doing it right? Did I fuck up already?”

Grif laughs as holo-Simmons’ voice takes on that same squeaky, panicked tone that he’s familiar with from the real one. If he hadn’t watched the room fabricate the hologram, there would be no way to tell the difference between the two.

This could actually _work_.

**Author's Note:**

> find me [here on tumblr](https://agentwashlngton.tumblr.com/post/614026891983241216/grimmons-fic-drowning-butterflies)  
> [i also have a grimmons playlist !](https://agentwashlngton.tumblr.com/post/614126210769993728/agentwashlngton-if-you-dont-focus-on-the)


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